


Fear of Falling

by hellkitty



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22472617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: It's another bingo prompt, woo hoo.  Prompt: je ne regrette rien.Set just prior to Infinity War.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 1
Kudos: 37
Collections: Gen Prompt Bingo Round 10





	Fear of Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's an anachronism. Edith Piaf didn't record the song until 1956, well after Steve would have been in ice. But I spent the last year reading 'New York Times Bestseller' historical fiction, that has won actual awards and gotten the authors HUGE BANK, with worse anachronisms (let me tell you how much I hated the Alice Network, for example), so before you get upset at me, check your grids. 
> 
> The movie they're watching is Inception, obviously.

Natasha shot a look over at Sam, one that showed an unaccustomed amount of worry, as Steve left--almost bolted--from the darkened room, stumbling at the threshold. Sam gave an eloquent shrug, elbowing up out of the chair, but Natasha beat him to it, rising with the speed and grace of a lifetime of training. She closed kept her eyes open as she crossed the threshold, feeling her pupils constrict sharply, scanning for Steve. An assassin couldn’t let something like light adjustment make her lose a target, and though Steve wasn’t a target, old habits never truly died. 

“You okay?” She came up next to him, as he stared out the plate window of Avenger’s headquarters, pitching her voice soft and low, so he could ignore it if he chose. Ignoring it would still count as an answer. 

Steve’s mouth worked, lips flattening and white for a moment, before he forced an unconvincing smile. “Fine,” he said. “Just needed some air.” 

“You’re a terrible liar,” she countered. She wouldn’t have it any other way, honestly. “It’s a confusing movie.” 

“That’s...not it.” His hands tightened on the windowsill, then released. “Though maybe Sam shouldn’t pick the movie next time.” 

“Sounds fair. But,” Natasha was determined to lighten the mood, “I’ll warn you, I have a weakness for romantic comedies.” Only the good ones, of course, the ones that dragged the characters along a knife blade of tragedy, before their happy, hard-fought endings. It gave her hope that maybe, one day….

Steve managed an anemic smile. “Scott made me watch _A Bug’s Life_ , so,...you’re good.” 

“You didn’t like it?” 

“Probably easier to enjoy without someone elbowing you in the ribs and repeating every line of dialogue,” he said, pulling himself onto this safer track of conversation. “But it’s Scott. I don’t think he gets out much.” 

“Or just not with the right people.” Natasha ratcheted up the grin. “What a world, when we’re the right people.” A man out of time, an ex convict and an ex assassin. Motley crew didn’t even begin to cover it. 

Steve’s smile seemed a little more flush, but then it faded again, his blue eyes drifting out to the sky, and the trees beyond. 

“I’m okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” Natasha said, though she really wasn’t. She’d make herself okay, though. She’d done harder things. 

“There’s nothing to talk about, honestly.” He focused on the sky, the thin chiffony streaks of clouds. “It was...her voice.” 

“Her voice?” Natasha ran her mind back over the movie. “Ariadne? The actress who plays her…?” Whose name had just escaped from Natasha’s brain. 

“Not her. The song.”

“Edith Piaf?” 

His lips pressed flat again, trying to crush some kind of emotion, and he managed a scant nod. “She was popular. During the war.” 

Natasha nodded. Of course. She knew that. And a female torch singer, with a smoldering, romantic song, and Peggy’s funeral just a few weeks ago…. “I’m sorry, Steve. I’m so sorry.”

“You couldn’t know,” Steve said, reasonably. Reason and the heart didn’t often see eye to eye, though. 

“Not for that,” she said. For losing Peggy. For losing the romance that might have been. For sitting by the woman of your dreams, young and virile and strong, while she had withered. A tragedy none of Natasha’s romantic comedies had dreamed up yet. 

The moment stretched, long, and she heard Sam step to the door, coming to check, but staying away. Like her, trying not to make it worse, but not sure how to make it better. 

Steve inhaled, deep but shaky, and exhaled, humming softly, lips moving, just barely. 

He was singing, whispering, really. “....ne regrette rien, ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, ni...” he choked on the word, emotion clogging his throat. I regret nothing, the words said, with the bald irony of the mid-war French. 

She risked laying a hand on his, just the fingertips, just the side of his hand. An offer, not an imposition. “I’m going to be honest. I don’t know what it’s like. Me? I can’t forget my past hard enough.” It always seemed to be chasing her, one step behind--muttered questions about her loyalties; every man she’d ever allowed close to question how far to trust her, how honest she was, and how slippery the scale was. Steve had lost everything. She’d never had anything worth losing. 

“It might be easier if I could forget,” Steve said, softly. 

“Easier, probably,” she said, levelly. “Can’t really say it’d be worth it, though.” What she would give for a love like Steve had, for his friend Bucky, for Peggy Carter. It wasn’t envy she felt for Peggy, or Bucky, really. Nothing against them. She could never want to take anything away from them. It was an envy for the abstract, for the ability to feel that deeply, that purely. What she was feeling must have been--a rare slip--on her face, written large and clear enough for Steve to read. She blinked away something close to tears from the corners of her eyes. “Sorry. I said I couldn’t know what it was like.”

“No,” Steve answered. “I needed to hear that, Nat.” 

“No you didn’t,” she said. “No one needs to deal with my...stuff.”

“No one needs to deal with my ‘stuff’ either,” Steve countered. “But here you are.” 

She started to protest that it was different, because Steve was, well, Steve, and she was, well, Natasha Romanova. She had been trained all her life not to have ‘stuff’. And not to make herself anyone’s business--to travel light, to leave no trace other than, perhaps, a knife to the throat. 

Steve turned his hand under hers, so they were palm to palm. “All the regrets I might have, being your friend is not one of them.” 

She felt like the ground was heaving under her, like she had stepped back off a building, falling, without control, her heart swinging up into her throat, a fear of falling tempered only by their touching hands. Me, neither, she wanted to say.


End file.
